


Hour of the Wolf

by GilraenDernhelm



Series: Be The Lightning In Me [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hectic AU, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GilraenDernhelm/pseuds/GilraenDernhelm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to ‘If I Told You What I’ve Done.’ Arya and Jaime meet again three years later, at the turn of the tide. Chapters 1 -  3 inspired by 03x08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She hadn’t changed. Twenty-two, and tall and dark and beautiful as Valyrian steel. She wore magnificent armour, the shoulders and breastplate emblazoned with the snarling direwolf of House Stark. Her hair was as he remembered it, luxuriantly brown, with a kind of warmth about it despite its bearing none of the vivid Tully auburn that smoldered, like a forest fire, in the hair of her siblings. But something had transformed the expression in her eyes, making them seem larger and brighter still. Jaime recognised it from his own: sadness.

He could see that she was doing her utmost not to look at him, though he could not tell if this was the result of hatred or love. He did not dare to assume either.

It was a surprise to see his brother at Arya’s side. They had always gotten on well, but were far from being fast friends. Tyrion looked as he always did; intelligence sparkling in his mismatched eyes as he took in every detail of their surroundings without fear. He had lived for too long to believe that people saw anything much of a threat in him, or perceived anything beyond his height.

More fool them, Jaime thought affectionately.

From the dais that had been set up in the ancient, freezing throne room of Dragonstone, Daenerys Targaryen surveyed the two envoys from King’s Landing with as much interest as the knight of the Queensguard at her side. Jaime saw her take in Arya’s armour with – was it admiration? – and her violet eyes fix suddenly on Tyrion, drawing his gaze.

She sees him, Jaime thought.

‘You are welcome to Dragonstone, my lord, my lady,’ Daenerys said, ‘and I thank you for your willingness to offer terms of peace.’

Both bowed.

‘I was saddened to hear of your father’s death, Lady Arya,’ the Targaryen Queen continued, ‘he was an honourable man.’

‘You are most kind, Khaleesi,’ Arya responded formally.

Jaime smiled. Clever little minx, to use the Dothraki mode of address.

Daenerys took Arya’s response for a gesture of respect.

‘When I take back the Iron Throne,’ she declared, ‘I will see to it that those responsible are punished.’

Tyrion and Arya looked at each other, then, and the warmth went out of Daenerys’ voice as her eyes fell on the black leather sack clutched in Arya’s hand.

‘What is that?’ she asked quietly.

Jaime’s heart began to beat very quickly. The look on Daenerys’ face told him that a confrontation was not only possible, but imminent, putting him into a dilemma that could have no pleasant resolution for him. If the contents of that sack were not to Daenerys’ liking, and he would have to choose between his wife and his Queen, he would choose his wife, the gods take the consequences.

 _Seven hells. And just when I thought I’d found a way to go home. Arya._ Arya.

‘We bring you a gift, Your Grace,’ Tyrion said, clearly sensing the Queen’s discomfort, but seeing no other way to proceed, ‘a token of Tywin Lannister’s goodwill.’

_Goodwill?_

Tyrion nodded slowly to Arya, who undid the laces of the leather sack and upended it. With a sickening splat, the head of Robert Baratheon rolled onto the carpet.


	2. Chapter 2

There was silence as Daenerys regarded the head of the Usurper. Jaime’s fingers closed around the hilt of his sword for comfort.

_They are fools if they think this will please her._

Daenerys once again looked up at the two envoys.

‘Why?’

‘Retribution for Lord Stark’s death,’ Tyrion replied, ‘and a disinclination to see King’s Landing burned to ashes.’

‘And _this_ is supposed to impress me?’ Daenerys spat, her scorn hiding her confusion.

‘Yes!’ Arya quipped, before being rapidly shushed by Tyrion. Jaime smiled in spite of himself.

‘If Tywin Lannister holds King’s Landing, why be so gracious as to offer the throne to me?’ Daenerys demanded coolly, ‘why not make himself King?’

‘My father wishes only to see the rightful queen restored to the throne,’ Tyrion intoned respectfully, bowing once more.

Daenerys’ imperious gaze shifted from the two envoys, to the head, and back again. The silence was deafening.

‘Missandei,’ she said suddenly, making them all jump, ‘find our guests suitable sleeping quarters. I must think on this.’

Jaime exhaled as Arya and Tyrion were led from the room; Daenerys herself showing no sign of moving.

‘If you’ll pardon me, Your Grace,’ Jaime said, earning a mighty scowl from Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jorah Mormont. Daenerys, however, hardly seemed to notice, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

He had to keep himself from running as he crossed the throne room and passed through its doors. As soon as they closed behind him, however, he bolted, running hard, seeking her, not finding her. It was only when he reached the yard that he saw her, leading two small figures on horses into the stables. His heart leapt. She’d brought the children with her.

They’d grown. Seven hells, they’d grown. They probably wouldn’t remember him now. He had been gone for three years.

But Arya would remember him, and he waited till he saw the glint of sunlight on her armour as she reappeared, Visenya holding her right hand, Tyrion her left. Their eyes met briefly, and for a moment he thought she would look away.

But then she dropped the children’s hands and ran to him, laughing at as their armour clanked loudly together, and sighing in contentment as her lips met his, swallowing his every attempt to speak.

 


	3. Chapter 3

He had changed. In a certain light, his hair looked more grey than blond. His face was as unlined as his father’s, but his skin had turned brown after years of riding in the sun. He stood beside the Queen, one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other clenched into a fist, and for a moment, she remembered the feeling of one of those glorious hands engulfing hers and shuddered, before becoming angry with herself and vowing that she would not look at him again.

Motherfucker.

The Queen was barely older than she was, and far more beautiful. A face like that could topple a thousand armies. Arya glanced once again at Jaime, observing the protective stance of his bearing at the Queen’s side, and suddenly wanted to cry.

If he’s been fucking her, she thought, I’ll have his guts for garters. Why in seven hells is he serving a Targaryen? _And why is she letting him?_

‘You are welcome to Dragonstone, my lord, my lady,’ the Queen said, ‘and we thank you for your willingness to offer terms of peace.’

Arya bowed as she’d been taught to do, praying that she wouldn’t fall over. The Targaryen Queen then addressed her directly.

‘I was sorry to hear of your father’s death, Lady Arya. He was an honourable man.’

Arya’s temper flared. How would she know?

_My idiot husband, most likely, though the gods only know why Jaime would want to praise Eddard Stark._

_‘If you lose your temper once, we are_ lost, _’ Tyrion had told her, ‘so keep a civil tongue in your head.’_

‘You are most kind, Khaleesi,’ Arya said eventually, hoping her good-brother would be satisfied with that. She had heard from some whores on the Street of Sisters that the Targaryen Queen preferred to be called Khaleesi. They had seen her once in Meereen, riding off into the sky on a dragon. Arya looked curiously about the room for dragons. None seemed to be present.

Daenerys asked about the head, and Arya looked into Tyrion’s eyes, her heart racing as her fingers undid the laces. She could feel Jaime’s every nerve on edge, even without looking at him.

This is the day we live or die, she thought, if I look back, I am lost.

The head fell at the Queen’s feet, and silence fell over the entire hall.

* * *

 

The Queen was not pleased. She was trying her best to look angry.

Convincing, Arya thought, but not convincing enough to deceive a water dancer trained by the First Sword of Braavos.

Syrio had never returned, or written to her, but she had expected that. Perhaps she would ask her fool husband about him later.

‘And _this_ is supposed to impress me?’ the Queen demanded in outrage.

‘Yes!’ Arya snapped in return, gaining herself an instant rebuke from Tyrion.

Stupid dragon bitch, Arya thought, _of course_ you’re meant to be impressed. If someone brought _me_ Robert Baratheon’s head and _I_ was a Queen, I’d knight them immediately.

Tyrion and Daenerys were arguing about Tywin’s motives in offering King’s Landing to the Targaryen Queen. Arya almost snorted.

_‘Make yourself King,’ she had told Tywin, ‘you would be cruel, and you would be hard, but you would save us from what Robert has done.’_

_‘I lost the war, girl,’ Tywin had replied, ‘I cannot be King after such a thing. Ruling is far easier when no one knows you’re doing it.’_

_Arya had been confused by that._

_‘What happened to establishing a dynasty that will last a thousand years?’ she had asked._

_Her good-father had smiled simply at her._

_‘I don’t need to be King to do that.’_

The Queen eventually ordered that Tyrion and Arya be given rooms while she ‘thought.’ What was there to think about? Take the throne or don’t!’

Arya slipped away from Tyrion, who was chatting animatedly to the pretty handmaiden Missandei, and returned to the gates of Dragonstone for her children. They too had been told that Jaime was dead, and had apparently believed it for the past three years. But when she told them the truth on the ride from King’s Landing, the news had had a rather cool reception.

‘We knew Father wasn’t dead,’ Tyrion had said in his soft voice.

‘We _knew_!’ Visenya had echoed loudly.

When asked _how_ they knew Father wasn’t dead, Tyrion and Visenya Lannister had stared at the floor and had begun to shuffle their feet.

A euphemism for ‘Grandfather Tywin.’

 


	4. Chapter 4

Lord Tywin had insisted on commanding the siege of King’s Landing himself, despite his age. Arya later learned that in battle, he had been fearsome to behold, the blood of his enemies running red against his Lannister armour. Fearsome or not, Lord Tywin had lost an ear on the third night, which had caused him such excruciating pain that he had relinquished command to his brother Kevan before returning to Casterly Rock. Riding for the Rock herself, Arya heard of none of this, her time consumed in avoiding the Kingsroad and in trying not to be exhausted by the seemingly-constant onslaught of bandits, outlaws and rebel knights that she seemed to meet day and night. Her return was short-lived, however, as the first sound that greeted her upon arrival was that of Visenya screaming.

Charging sword-drawn into the Keep and following the sound to Lord Tywin’s solar, Arya had found her good-father sitting calmly behind his table. Facing him, her back to Arya, was Visenya, crying like she’d been scourged.

‘What in seven hells is going on?’ Arya demanded in disbelief, as Visenya sprinted across the room, hurling herself into her mother’s arms.

On the table, Arya saw a large book lying open. Scattered around it were reams of paper, many of them discarded, crumpled and torn up. Tywin remained silent, calm as still water as she approached.

Each sheet of parchment was covered in a large, blotted, childlike script. She almost laughed at the idea of Tywin’s attempting to teach a child anything. But then she took a closer look at the words Visenya had been made to copy out, and she saw that almost every letter was written backwards.

Arya looked up at Tywin in horror, holding Visenya closer to her. He sniffed.

‘If Jaime could learn,’ he said severely, ‘so can she.’

Arya felt sick. Visenya was huddling against her, weeping quietly.

Arya looked at Lord Tywin again, and realised that she had been a naïve fool.

 _If Jaime ever hears of this, he’ll kill him_.

She had stormed through the halls to Tyrion’s room, taken her son from his chambers, and had ridden away immediately. Tywin may once have felt free to torture his own son. He would not do the same to her daughter.

* * *

 

After seeing to Tyrion and Visenya’s horses, Arya took them both in hand and led them out of the stables. Jaime stood waiting for them, looking afraid, and older, and beautiful, and hers, damn him.

As their eyes met, and she remembered the vivid green that once been so familiar to her, Arya realised that she couldn’t be angry anymore. Jaime had done something to her from the first time they had ever really spoken together. Instead of laughing at her, he had drawn his sword and challenged her, as an opponent, as a friend, as an equal.

‘You want something more,’ he had seemed to say to her every day, ‘I do too. So let’s find it and take it together.’

In him, she had found what she’d been looking for. She had realised it each day and night for three years as the entire world seemed to shift and throb with the absence of him. The absence of the shock that went shivering up her arm each time her blade parried his, the way his voice seemed to growl when he was angry, the openness of his face when Tyrion and Visenya spoke to him, or looked at him. The absence of his screams when the Mad King haunted him at night, of the way Jaime would whisper her name after they made love, of a constant presence in the world, a reminder that goodness existed.

She didn’t love the selfish, amoral shit who had fucked his own sister and had ensured that Bran would never be anything but Bran the Broken. She loved the person who stood across the yard from her, expecting to be ignored and reviled for what he had done; her husband; her friend; the only man she could ever be capable of loving.

 _Fuck it_.

She ran to him.

He was trying to speak to her, but she stopped him each time, her tongue filling his mouth, reclaiming his light, pulling herself back from the darkness.

‘I love you,’ she whispered, when they had to stop to breathe, ‘I love you.’

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Tyrion the Younger had the golden hair and green eyes of a man of Casterly Rock, and the silent iron soul of a man of Winterfell. He spoke only when addressed, and very little even then.

In consequence, Tyrion had always been rather puzzled by his parents’ constant and insatiable need to speak. To make matters worse, they always seemed to discuss the same things: Father being stupid, Mother being a bitch, Father being a grumpy old man, Mother being a stubborn wolf child. They even managed to talk while they were sleeping. At least once a week, his father would wake up shouting something that sounded like ‘surrender,’ and his mother’s voice would respond in the same way it did when Tyrion skinned his knee or fell sick, things like ‘sh’ or ‘my sweet summer child, I am here.’ Tyrion always sniffed at the thought. She was only allowed to call _him_ that.

Tyrion was better with a sword than most boys of six, though he practiced little and cared less. His hours in the library gave his maester an easy job and his master of arms a thankless one. He was always forgetting to go to the yard, more often than not deliberately choosing not to. Swordplay was nice enough, but reading was better. With reading, he could go far away.

Mother was always being tiresome, taking his books away and ordering him to go practice with his stupid wooden sword. Father was different. One day, he had come to the yard, telling the master of arms that he needed to see his son on ‘urgent business.’ Instead of running off and doing something urgent, they had gone to the library, and Tyrion had looked up in adoration as Father had handed him the key to the rooms where the oldest books were kept. Father had told him that if he practiced for one hour each day, he would be given the key and the freedom to study the oldest books in King’s Landing. If he did not practice, there would be no key. Tyrion had hugged him, then, and Father had spun him around in the air like a dragon in flight before laughing as Tyrion rushed off to the yard to practice, as fast as his little legs could take him.

Mother had been livid.

‘How can he possibly get good if he only practices for one hour a day, you stupid?’ she had shouted.

But Father had winked at him, and he had known that it would be alright.

Tyrion had read much about Dragonstone, and in his wilder moments he had liked to race down to the dragon skulls beneath the Red Keep and pretend he was Rhaegar Targaryen returning to the fabled halls of his ancestors. The real Dragonstone frightened him.

The halls were dark, cold, and almost impossible to associate with the fiery heart and shimmering gold of the dragon dynasty. There were invisible cracks in the walls that blew such freezing breezes in off the sea that he might have imagined himself in the land of his mother’s people simply by closing his eyes.

 

It was not the wind’s icy breath that kept Tyrion from his sleep, however, but the sound the wind made as it exhaled mightily, blowing candles out and leaving torches guttering in their sconces. It was a menacing sound; a lonely sound; the sound of Dragons dead, both mad and sound of mind.

‘You do not belong here,’ they whispered to him, ‘you have no place in our halls, son of the Kingslayer.’

The Kingslayer. The murderer of the last Targaryen King. Did being here make Father afraid too?

Tyrion rose from his bed, opened his door and shuffled to the room his parents shared, feeling ashamed. Visenya was always telling him that being afraid of the dark and the noises it made was stupid.

‘There are _white walkers_ beyond the Wall,’ she liked to say, ‘you should be worrying about _them_.’

His parents door was ajar, and their candle still burning. They lay naked in bed together, his father’s skin almost copper in the candlelight, his mother’s like alabaster against it. His hand was working steadily between her legs, and she was gasping into his neck, making him moan.

Tyrion knew exactly what they were doing; Father’s key having given him access to rooms full of histories of the Lysian pleasure houses. To confess the truth, Tyrion had no idea what all the fuss was about. He found the concept rather revolting, really.

His parents clearly didn’t share his reservations, however. Each was now riding the other like knights driving their horses into a mêlée, except they were being noisier than horses.

Ewwwww.

Suddenly they screamed at the same time, making Tyrion jump, but they did not break apart, shuddering together and breathing together. Finally, his father kissed his mother’s eyelids, nose and mouth.

‘Arya,’ he whispered to her, ‘Arya.’

Suddenly, Tyrion felt embarrassed and ashamed of himself.

_You are a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Stop being a miserable coward and go back to bed!_

Praying that he wouldn’t wake Visenya on his way back to his chambers, he tiptoed down the hall, hoping that the dragons would decide to spare him. At least for one night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep the reviews coming!


	6. Chapter 6

Jaime closed his eyes. His head resting on Arya’s chest, he listened to her heartbeat; something he’d often imagined he could hear in moments of danger or doubt. He wouldn’t tell her that, though. She’d simply laugh at him.

He remembered the first time he’d listened to her heart, the sound of it no less vivid than the beat that filled his veins in that very moment.

 _‘You_ touch _me,’ Arya said, stepping out of what was left of her wedding gown, ‘and the cock jokes people tell about Lord Varys will look pale compared to what they’ll say about you.’_

_Jaime smirked at her. While he’d jested, laughed and thrown a few good-natured punches during the bedding, Arya had broken two noses and had scratched an infinite number of arms, necks and faces. The resulting enthusiasm of the male guests had reduced her wedding gown to rags, and her knuckles to a bloody mess before the doors were finally closed on Arya and Jaime, leaving them alone._

_Jaime’s wife was down to the shift by now, and though he felt a certain revulsion at seeing any woman but Cersei clothed in this fashion, his chest swelled with the same admiration he had felt at Robert Baratheon’s brush with the carving knife earlier that evening as he watched Arya wipe her knuckles on her gown before throwing it into a corner of the room. She then stomped across the room to the basin at the window, the blood on her hands staining the water red._

_Jaime’s nose wrinkled._

_She doesn’t even_ move _like a woman, he thought, indignant at the match for the umpteenth time that year. The sound of his sister moving was that of silk against the skin; a faint trace of lavender remaining in the air wherever she went. She was grace, and beauty, and fire made flesh. This Stark girl was a barbarian. And yet._ And yet.

_Their dance in the kingswood the night she had tried to run had been exhilarating. With a blade in her hand, she had soared, even catching him off guard once. Or twice. Her style was not one he was familiar with, and the strangeness and unexpectedness of it had thrilled him to the core, once he had ceased to be angry at having been dragged out of bed at the hour of the wolf to help search for a betrothed that he did not want._

_‘Bit of a quandary for you,’ she had said as they circled each other, ‘if you kill me, you’ve failed your father. But if you don’t kill me…I’m going to kill you.’_

_It hadn’t taken him long to crack her on the head and to sling her over his saddle like a sack of potatoes for the trip back to King’s Landing, but he had been impressed. What a woman._

_But he didn’t want her. He didn’t want anyone. He simply wanted Cersei._

_‘Well, my lady,’ he said flippantly, ‘what do you propose we do tonight, since doing our duty is so distasteful to both of us?’_

_He expected her to look hurt at that, but to his delight – no, his chagrin (_ why the fuck had he felt delighted? _), the bone-thin boy-girl wolf-child simply shrugged as she replied._

_‘I’ve heard that people traditionally sleep at night.’_

_‘And how do you propose we get to sleep with that ruckus still going on downstairs?’_

_‘We wait for Robert to pass out?’_

_‘A sensible notion, but that could take all night, knowing Robert.’_

_‘True.’_

_She had a strange expression on her face; a blend of pleasant surprise and bewilderment. Her eyes were grey as the northern sky._

_‘Do you play cyvasse?’ she asked suddenly._

_Jaime shrugged._

_‘When I can find a worthy opponent.’_

_‘Are you good?’_

_‘Very good.’_

_‘You’ve chosen your opponents wisely, then.’_

_‘I have a knack for it.’_

_‘Shall we play?’_

_Jaime bowed mockingly._

_‘If it please my lady.’_

_‘I’ll call for a board.’_

_As her fingers closed around the door handle, she looked back at him._

_‘And if it please_ you _, Arya’s enough. I’m no lady.’_

_Were it not for the lateness of the hour, and his having choked on an entire goblet of Dornish red earlier that evening, Jaime would have said she was fantastic. She had the mind of a man, and a clever man at that, and Jaime was seized more than once by the uncomfortable feeling that this was how his father would have played, had Father ever been the type to sit down for a casual game of cyvasse._

_She played too good a game for him, and he was too tired and too fed up to match her. By the time they had played two games, he was relaxing and letting her win._

_He began to notice things about her. When she concentrated, two small frown lines creased between her eyes, and her lips pouted childishly. She was always playing with her hair, tugging incessantly at the ends of her braids till they were non-existent. Her hands and feet were calloused from years in the practice yard, and the light from the fire threw the small muscles of her upper arms into sharp silhouette, making her skin seem golden. He could tell that she sensed the intensity of his gaze, but she said nothing, her eyes meeting his again and again before flickering back to the game._

_Her small fist came down hard on the board, sending the pieces flying._

_‘Seven hells!’ Jaime exclaimed in astonishment._

_She flung two warships at him in response._

_‘You’re letting me win!’_

How in seven hells did she know that?

_‘What does it matter if I am?’ he scoffed._

_‘Play properly, or I’ll – ’_

_‘What? Throw more warships at me?’_

_‘Stop treating me like a child, or I’ll throw something sharper than a warship at you!’_

_Insolent pup. He could disarm her before she so much as moved for a weapon. He was surprised to find that the knowledge did not make him want to do so._

_‘Very well, my lady.’_

_‘Arya!’_

_‘Arya.’_

_She smiled at him._

_That didn’t last long, however, because he soon began to beat her. The crease between Arya’s eyes became deeper and her lips fuller as her pout became more pronounced; and Jaime imagined banishing that childish look from her mouth with a mere flick of his tongue, before pulling away from the idea, horrified with himself._

What in seven hells is happening to me?

_‘Fuck you!’ Arya scowled, as he claimed victory for the third time. Jaime’s mouth opened, preparing to unleash the usual torrent of flowery obsequiousness. What popped out was this._

_‘Fuck you too._ My lady. _’_

_Arya’s eyes glared into his and Jaime’s breath caught in his throat._

Fuck. My sword. What did I do with my sword?

_But then the cyvasse pieces were spilling across the floor, and the child was in his lap, kissing him. He felt his hands move to clasp her back, the warmth of her skin smoldering through her shift._

_She pulled away from him and regarded him with something akin to shock or effrontery, and he felt blood rushing to his head with such rapidity that he earnestly feared fainting and embarrassing himself. He couldn’t believe it. She wanted him. And stranger still, he wanted her._

_‘Gods be good,’ he whispered, ‘who are you?’_

_She seemed to want to answer him, but no sound had time to escape her lips: his tongue was in her mouth, and hers was in his, and he could scarcely think or breathe for how good it felt._

_But this isn’t right,_ it can’t be right _, he thought as the child’s shift came off along with his shirt and he pulled the impossible fiery smallness of her back into his arms; Cersei, she was him, he was her, born together, die together,_ oh gods _…_

_The child’s lips grazed one of his nipples, sending such a powerful shudder through him that he almost cried out._

_‘What have we here?’ he joked in disbelief when the sensation of steel against his skin turned out to be two daggers at Arya’s thigh and between her breasts rather than an attempt to assassinate him._

_‘Protection,’ she whispered, and kissed him again, her lips delightfully, irresistibly inexperienced, wanting him, but afraid. He realised that now._

_It was so different from Cersei. His bride was fifteen (seven hells) and terrified, though a fast learner, and fearless. He could see a foreignness in her expression that masked her fear; perhaps of the same provenance as her fighting style, and he didn’t want it there. Something had led her to kiss him, the same thing that had made him kiss her back, gods help him, and though he felt he should desire the opposite, he wanted to know what it was and not to have to guess his way around Braavosi foolishness._

_She started to struggle with the laces of his breeches. That was encouraging._

_‘What happened to gelding me?’ he laughed, his lips barely leaving hers. He felt her scowl._

_‘Shut up.’_

_Her skin was exquisitely soft, but prickling with uncertainty and questioning, quivering with her youth._

_A gentleness that he had never known existed in him overwhelmed him in a rush of iridescence, and he kissed her eyelids, earlobes and nose, making her laugh, and the soft skin at the base of her throat and the back of her neck, making her pant and swear. And all the while her impossible small little girl hands went exploring, the reactions they coaxed from him making him feel half a virgin himself._

_And he was, in a way._

_As he entered her, Cersei seemed to fade like a ghost into his mind’s spirit world. Arya was squirming beneath him like the child she was, sometimes crying out in pain, but threatening to kill him if he stopped. Her legs were wrapped around him, her cunt was wetter than the Westerlands in spring, and she was moaning his name softly as though she’d been saying it each day for all of her life._

_‘Jaime.’_

_They both came absurdly quickly, something half of King’s Landing would no doubt know about by morning if Varys’ little birds were as well-dispatched as he claimed._

_But he didn’t give a fuck about Varys, or his little birds._

_As he lay gasping beside her, he tried hard to kill this, whatever it was, in its cradle. For Cersei, for himself, for Cersei._

_It’s not difficult for a man of your age to come when fucking a fifteen year old, he told himself, it means nothing. She’s just a little barbarian with a tight cunt that somehow succeeded in making you hard for her. It means nothing._

_But when she fell asleep, he laid his head on her chest and listened to her heart. It was beating in perfect time to his own._

_When he opened his eyes the next morning, she was already awake, watching him. Her eyes were like the silver twilight that heralded a storm at sea._

_‘Good morning, my stubborn wolf child,’ he murmured._

_She smiled at him._

_‘Good morning.’_

 


	7. Chapter 7

Daenerys Targaryen’s solar at Dragonstone was a much more comfortable chamber than the throne room. It was unusually small and cozy, the thick woolen carpets and richly-embroidered velvet curtains keeping out the worst of the cold; the fire that burned in the grate banishing the rest.

At the center of the room, Arya stood facing Daenerys, a smashed wine goblet lying ominously on the carpet between them. Violet met grey. The combination was not pleasing to look upon.

‘Your husband saved my life when he had no cause to do so,’ Daenerys said, ‘he swore me allegiance when I could easily have had him killed for his crimes. For these reasons, I will not have your tongue ripped out with hot pincers.’

‘Thank you, Khaleesi,’ Arya responded acrimoniously.

_If you lay a hand on me, Jaime will kill you._

‘Though I am prepared to forget your insolence,’ the stupid dragon bitch continued, ‘I am not prepared to withdraw my request.’

Arya was quivering with rage, livid with the Queen, _infuriated_ with Jaime. What madness had possessed him?

‘Why should I betray my family and my people for you?’ Arya spat, unmoved and unafraid.

‘Because you know I’ll win,’ the Queen said simply.

Daenerys’ smile irritated her, and Arya’s hand was only stayed by the memory of what had happened the last time she struck a queen. So instead of smashing Daenerys’ head in, she turned on her heel and walked to the door.

‘Lady Lannister,’ Daenerys called after her.

Arya turned back to where the Dragon stood, wondering what else poor sad King Aerys’ daughter had to say to the likes of her.

‘Jaime is your family now,’ Daenerys declared, ‘think on that.’

Arya left without a word.

As she swept through the halls like a stormcloud on the way to Jaime’s chambers, her mind was in turmoil.

_I hate them. I hate all of them. Why won’t they leave us alone? Why won’t they let us live?_

But as she flung the door open, and Jaime turned to look at her, golden in the evening light, she realised that even after all this time, she still did not know who ‘they’ and ‘us’ were.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Twilight at Dragonstone was malevolently silent. The only sound was the sea as it shattered threateningly against the rocky coast, like the skulls of the Warrior’s enemies against his greatsword. From an upstairs window that afforded a view of the practice yard, Jaime watched Visenya sparring angrily with herself. Each boy she’d asked to practice with her had laughed. She had given no sign that she was affected by this, claiming a patch of ground and ignoring them all. It was only when the yard had emptied out that her anger had resurfaced, and she sawed and sliced at the air as though to cut its throat, making many mistakes in the process. He would have to take her in hand about that. Fighting in anger was a surefire path to shoddy technique and defeat.

The door was opened and hurled shut with the savagery of a wolf tearing a lion’s throat out. Jaime’s heart sank. The interview had not gone well.

‘You _idiot_!’ Arya yelled, clouting Jaime squarely across the face.

He immediately seized both her hands, knowing that the one would inevitably continue along the path of least resistance should the other be restrained. Jaime knew that reasoning with her would not work (it never did), so he decided to try demands.

‘Calm down, Arya!’

‘ _How_ could you discuss something like this with the Queen with asking me first? What if I don’t _want_ to go?’

Jaime stared at her. She wasn’t joking. He released her hands, surprised and disappointed.

She must have seen it in his face, because his stubborn wolf child relaxed immediately, making a concerted effort to calm herself. Jaime released her hands, giving her a small smile, and once again looked out of the window at Visenya. Jaime saw a ghost in her golden hair.

‘She’s like me. Isn’t she?’ he asked quietly.

Arya’s face was calm as still water.

‘She may be better than you ever were. Someday,’ Arya replied.

‘I’m not talking about swordplay, wife. And I think you know that.’

When her face remained like a glacier, he smiled at her. She still thought she could lie to him; foolish child.

He didn’t know whether to be angry or touched that Arya had told him nothing about his father’s cruelty to Visenya. Because he always saw the best in her, most of him thought she had wanted to protect him. His jealous side told him she was protecting his father; the father who loved his good-daughter more than any of his own children. Perhaps it was because she never tried to please him. Or perhaps she was protecting both of them…from each other.

‘How did you know?’ Arya blurted, her face turning red.

‘She told me.’

‘I told her not to.’

‘She disobeyed you. She’s like me, remember?’

‘She knows how to use a sword. So yes, she’s like you.’

‘She five, and she can’t even be taught to write her own name. So yes, she’s like me.’

Arya took his hand, but did not reply. In her eyes, he saw his own reflected, burning pale with flame. And looking back at Visenya, he saw himself as a child; a darling of the gods as long as he held a sword in his hand. Replace it with a pen, and he became lower than the meanest fool. At least that was what his father had taught him.

For his daughter, it would be worse. Though she had parents who loved her as she was, she would be triply damned, both in the world’s eyes and in her own. An illiterate, the child of a heretic, and a girl. Nobody would care how well she could fight.

Arya turned away from the window.

‘How could you tell the Queen I would negotiate with Robb?’

Jaime looked down as she quickly and deliberately dropped his hand, not knowing if he should laugh or simply stalk away. They were already fighting. _Already_.

‘Arya,’ Jaime replied, ‘you’re the only person who can make Robb see sense.’

‘What about Sansa? Or Bran?’

‘Both ride with him.’

Arya had difficulty imagining Sansa riding anywhere.

‘And what if I don’t _want_ to make Robb see sense?’ she said.

Jaime gawped at her. He didn’t believe it.

‘You _support_ this King in the North nonsense?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Arya snapped, ‘I’m of the North!’

 


	9. Chapter 9

In that moment, Jaime felt a light somewhere inside him go out and one of the thousands of silvery thin threads that bound him so inextricably to Arya snap; and in that moment he knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that he was going to lose her. The excruciating pain of the idea made him very angry, very quickly.

Arya was still speaking.

‘It’s something we all want!’ she exclaimed, ‘you’re a Southerner, you don’t understand these things!’

‘How can I understand? You’ve never spoken to me about this! Not once!’

‘And when was I meant to do that? You’ve been gone for the past three years, and before that, you were too busy fucking Cersei to –’

The colour drained from Arya’s face so quickly that Jaime momentarily thought she had fallen sick.

‘Oh gods, I’m sorry –’

‘Fuck off, Arya.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!’

‘Then why did you say it?’

‘Jaime –’

‘It hardly matters anyway. My sister is dead, and so are her children. Problem solved! You must be thrilled!’

‘I’m delighted!’

‘You should be! When you decided to remove Robert Baratheon’s head, you avenged both them and your father! Talk about killing two birds with one stone!’

‘Fuck you, Jaime!’

She was crying. Regretting his words, he tried to speak. She didn’t let him.

‘I dressed up specially to kneel with Sansa in front of that half-mad, sex-addled drunk of a King, in front of the entire court, to beg for Father’s life. ‘Refusing to kill the Targaryen Queen is mercy, not treason,’ we said, ‘He’s your friend. Let him take the black. He’ll be out of your way, and he’ll be home.’ Robert promised he would be merciful, but he cut my father’s head off. The miserable coward didn’t even have the balls to do it himself. So when Robb called the banners, I was glad, because the North would finally be free of these simpering Southerners with their flowers and their intrigues, who don’t know cold, or winter. When Tywin declared for Daenerys, I was glad, because I’d be able to take Robert’s head myself. And when Robb marched back North, daring Daenerys to follow him, I was glad, because he finally understands. He knows that the North has nothing in common with the South, apart from having bowed down to some silver-haired shit three hundred years ago.’

‘The descendant of that silver-haired shit will get the same thing from Robb, one way or the other. She has dragons!’

‘We’ll kill them!’

‘ _Kill_ them?’

‘Yes!’

Jaime was so angry at her stubbornness and stupidity that he was finding it difficult to speak. Nonetheless, he tried.

‘ _Are you mad_?’

She scoffed at him, shaking her head in disappointment.

‘You really think that because my name is Lannister now, that I was ever really one of you?’

He had.

‘You can dress me up in all the lions you want - I will always be a wolf.’

‘But you can’t do this!’

‘STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO, JAIME!’

‘ _NO_!’

She took two involuntary steps backwards. He’d frightened her. Maybe that was no bad thing. He wanted to kiss her lips, stroke her hair and apologise; to promise to break his allegiance to Daenerys and ride away with her to fight for the North. His common sense would not allow him to. If he lost this argument, she would die.

He stepped towards her. She stepped back. He seized her wrist and pulled her against him, crushing her to his chest and murdering each attempt she made to move. He whispered hoarsely into her ear. If she wouldn’t listen, he would make her. Better traumatised than dead.

‘If your brother does not bend the knee, he and everyone that fights for him will be incinerated. Thousands of people will die. Winterfell will be nothing but a blackened ruin, and Catelyn, Bran, Rickon, Sansa, little Alyssa and Steffon, and everyone you love, will die. And if Robb doesn’t die in battle, which he probably will, then the gods know what Daenerys will do to him.’

She tensed up against him, and he felt his words pulling her into their depths. She was seeing Winterfell in flames, and the ashen body of her sister bent over those of Alyssa and Steffon, having died trying to protect them. She was feeling the fire on her face as Robb, Bran and Rickon were roasted alive in their armour. Her hands grew tight against his back,  and he knew she was imagining holding them up before her eyes. Was she seeing ash, or blood?

She relaxed. And Jaime knew he had convinced her.

As he held her, she asked if he would come with her to Winterfell.

‘Being apart is horrible,’ she mumbled, ‘I don’t like it.’

Jaime closed his eyes as they filled with tears.

‘Remember how young she is,’ he told himself, ‘So. Very. Young.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Field of Fire', sequel, coming up soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews help me spread the love!


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